Shatter
by Sakuri
Summary: What if Nero had crashed through into the mirror!verse instead? WIP, Spirk slash. (Continued over on AO3.)
1. Chapter 1

**Notes: **So, first thing first, I should warn that this story will probably have quite a few dark themes throughout, including torture, murder, and possible sexual assault. I'll try to warn for individual chapters.

Secondly, this is a reboot of the mirror 'verse. I realise that to begin with, characters aren't yet their cruel, cold selves we see in TOS 'Mirror Mirror'. The point of this was that I wanted to look at some of the ways they might get there.

Thirdly, reviews and responses are always appreciated. Enjoy.

xxx

**Stardate 2248.319. **

**Tarsus IV. **

**Alpha Colony. **

Jim Kirk hurtled through the undergrowth, desperately trying to make as little noise as possible and maintain the breakneck pace. Already his side blazed with pain and his lungs dragged uselessly at the frigid air. His feet kept missing their mark, sliding in the dirt so that he almost fell headlong into damp bracken. Branches whipped past his face, leaving fresh scratches to add to the black eye and split lip he already sported.

He hadn't been running for long, but already he knew he wasn't going to make it much further. There was a thicket of trees ahead, and it took almost his last reserves of energy to stumble towards them. He fell against one and sank to his knees behind it, holding his forearm up over his mouth to muffle the rasp of his laboured breathing in the icy morning silence. Black spots danced in his vision, and for a moment he was terrified of losing consciousness. Ears straining for sounds of pursuit, he slid the stolen knife from his boot and clutched it ready.

He was fifteen and starving and half-feral.

A good ten minutes passed before he dared move again. His breathing slowly returned to normal and the threat of passing out receded, but the agonising empty clench of his stomach was going nowhere. He let himself fall back onto his ass in the dirt, curling forward to rest his head against his knees.

That had been too close, too big a group. Too much of a risk that they could have caught and killed him for the precious parcel he'd stolen out from under them. But he hadn't eaten anything in going on three days now, and he thought he might have given up and died soon anyway if he hadn't risked it all.

He scrambled for the cloth-wrapped parcel tucked into his shirt, laying it out on the ground and peeling back the dirty fabric. It contained a single strip of salted, dried meat, a withered piece of unidentified fruit and a chunk of stale bread old enough to have been baked before the crop-rot spread planet wide.

It felt like a feast.

There were tears in his eyes as he tore into the hardened bread, but he swiped them away angrily and concentrated on chewing instead. It was tough enough to make his jaw ache, but he relished the sensation. The fruit was bitter and unpleasant, but as far as he could tell hadn't been infected and that made it more than good enough. He hacked the meat in half with his knife and stuffed one piece into his mouth, swallowing too fast and nearly choking himself.

When he was done, a third of the bread, the fruit core, and half the meat remained. His stomach cramped demandingly as he regarded what was left, but he knew better than to try and eat it all at once. He'd seen others, usually the younger ones, cram down too much too fast only for their shrunken stomachs to reject it all. He couldn't afford to waste a mouthful, given that he had no idea when he'd come across so good a haul again. Reluctantly, he re-wrapped the parcel and stuffed it back down his shirt-front. Then he rose stiffly to his feet, listening again for movement. There was nothing. Even the sounds of birds and insects had finally ceased at some point during the last week.

Tarsus was dying, the entire colony with it.

He started walking, not particularly caring in which direction as long as he kept away from the main colony site to the east. It would have been safer to get further from it, deeper into the forest where there were fewer patrols and groups of fellow scavengers. But that also meant even less access to food with no one to steal from, and no way of knowing when - if - the Imperial relief ships ever arrived. So for three weeks now he'd circled round and round, stalking and sneaking his way from hiding place to hiding place.

It had been the Orion refugees' doing. That had been the popular theory back at the colony before he'd left. Some virulent xeno disease they'd brought with them which spread like wildfire, infecting every bit of vegetation like a plague. There'd been rioting, calls for quarantine and deportation, but it had already been too late by then. The crops were dead, the livestock starving, and not nearly enough food reserves left to support the whole population. The first wave of executions had taken place without warning. He could still remember the burned meat smell of phaser fire, the screaming as Kodos' militia stormed through the colony, the panic as people tried to run in every direction at once.

George Kirk had been among the first to die, targeted as a potential figure of authority who might pose a threat to the self-proclaimed new governor. Some Kodos loyalist lucky enough to pass the genetics test had come into their home and shot him point-blank in the head. Jim had been hiding in the back room at the time, unnoticed.

He shied from the memory, shaking his head to clear it. Now was not the time.

He needed to find a place secure enough to spend the night. He'd passed through this area of forest before, maybe a week ago, and he thought he could remember a rock outcrop up ahead that might provide enough shelter from the elements and a decent hiding spot. He changed direction a little, moving purposefully now. But he'd gone no more than a few steps when he heard it.

A twig snapped in the bushes to his left. Instantly, the knife was in his hand again, and he whirled around to face the source of the sound.

The girl looked like an apparition, caught frozen stepping from the foliage. The dress she'd been wearing was shredded. Dark eyes were wide and scared in her face, darting between Jim and the knife he held out in threat before him. Her breath came in short, sharp puffs of mist and her dirt-smudged cheeks made her look ghostly.

Jim clenched his jaw, furious with himself for letting someone walk right up without noticing. While she didn't exactly look much of a threat, a couple of inches taller than him but frail and waifish, it could just as easily have been one of Kodos' militia hunters.

He flashed a grin. "Well this is awkward. Tell you what, you keep walking, I keep walking, pretend we never saw a thing. Sound good?" Friendly though his tone was, he kept the knife held steadily between them.

The girl didn't respond for long seconds, staring at him. At last she blinked listlessly. "Do... Do you have food?"

"No," he lied. "No one does these days. You might have noticed."

"Oh." She looked at the ground for a while, then at the sky, then back to Jim. "Can I stay with you?"

He frowned, taken aback. "Uhm. I don't think that's a good idea. Sorry." He'd tried partnering up when things had first started going to hell, thinking it safer to have someone watching his back out here in the wilderness. The fucker had taken Jim's share of the food while he slept and ran. "Look, I've got to go -"

He tried to circle round her, but her eyes instantly flew wide in alarm and she darted forward. "No wait, don't leave!"

He hissed frantically. "Shut _up_! Keep your voice down!"

Her hands fluttered up to her mouth. "I'm sorry. Please don't leave. I need food. Do you have any?"

"I said no." He backed up, concerned by the feverish shine of her eyes. This was a mistake. He should have turned and fled without a word the moment he saw her.

"I won't be any trouble. I'll keep quiet, I promise."

"Not gonna happen, sorry." He sidestepped a few more paces, scanning the area for his escape route. Running was definitely the better part of valour here. He was just making ready to bolt when a sound that chilled his blood drifted through the air.

Murmuring voices and rustling vegetation behind him, getting closer.

"Fuck." He hadn't actually lost them, then.

The girl's attention had drifted away from him and towards the approaching voices. "Is that... people? Do you think they have food?"

"They won't take you in, trust me," Jim warned, already starting to creep quickly away.

She took a few clumsy steps after him, then stopped. "They might. Are they after you?"

"Yes, and they will _kill _us both if they find us. You need to run." He turned a last harried glance over his shoulder to make sure she got the message, just in time to see her open her mouth and start screaming.

"HE'S HERE! HE'S RIGHT HERE, I FOUND HIM!"

For a crucial second, Jim could only stare, struck dumb by a sense of unreasonable betrayal. Then he was flying towards her, enraged. "Shut the _fuck _up, what the fuck are you _doing_?!"

She pushed him away and continued to scream. "HE'S HERE! I GOT HIM, I FOUND HIM!" Then, whispering, "I'm so sorry. But they'll give me food."

He wasn't sure how it happened, afterwards, only that he'd needed to make her be quiet, needed to stop her following him, and then suddenly he was pressed up against her and she was gasping in his ear and the knife was in her stomach. She blinked in that awful listless way, and coughed. Blood splattered across his face and gushed out over his hand.

He stepped back. She crumpled into the dirt without much of a sound at all. The voices were louder now, almost upon him, spreading out like hunting predators.

Jim turned and resumed his desperate flight for survival.

xxx

**Stardate 2251.006. **

**Juvenile Care Facility space station. **

**Coordinates: 23-17-46-11. **

Spock folded the last of his clothing and placed it carefully inside the standard issue bag they had given him that morning. It now contained a shuttle ticket viable for the next two weeks, a PADD outdated by several years, Terran style black slacks and a white shirt. Everything else he owned in the world he currently wore on his back. Zipping the bag closed, he settled the strap securely over his shoulder and cast one last observation around the room where he had resided for the first twenty one years of his life.

A single round window of triple-strength plastite showed a view of empty space and little else. Three beds occupied most of the available floor space. His was the one at the end, where he could sleep with his back to the wall. All three had been made up with military precision, and there was neither mess nor decoration to indicate this was this living space of a trio of testosterone-fuelled males. He imagined it was an arrangement his Vulcan father might have approved of, had he ever had cause to inspect the place.

Twenty one whole years wasted in this room, locked in with Terran adolescents whose dislike and distrust were entirely mutual, until the long awaited day he was no longer considered a minor by Vulcan standards. He felt the old familiar anger rise up in him at that thought, his fist gripping the bag strap too tightly. Had he been born fully Terran, he would have been released three years ago at a minimum. But then, had he been born fully Terran, he would not have been relegated to this refuge of the unwanted in the first place.

Spock had been ten the year Romulan rebels finally won a victory in repelling Starfleet forces from their system. It had been all over the news broadcasts for months, alien faces glaring from plasma screens like the personification of heathen evil. With their pointed ears and upswept brows, they'd looked Vulcan.

Spock had been aware of his own xenobiological differences before then, but the incident had seemed to trigger a conscious realisation in his Terran peers. They'd actively withdrawn from him, become hostile and cruel. For weeks it had escalated beyond all reason, until violence had broken out when one of the children had pulled the point of his ear.

In turn, Spock had broken one boy's arm and fractured the orbital socket of another.

He'd nearly lost his place at the facility, his alien nature deemed too volatile, too vicious to be permitted around vulnerable Terran youths. Ultimately, however, he had been permitted to stay under the condition he undertake strict Vulcan practices of self-control. Instructional holo-vids on meditation, emotional repression and Vulcan physiology had become integral cornerstones of his schooling - and while their rate of success was open to debate, the incident had never been repeated.

For the most part, Spock had learned to endure torment without response. It was the simplest course of action.

Releasing emotion on an exhale, just as the self-aid holovids had instructed him, he lifted his head and turned to exit the room.

Another boy barred the doorway.

Spock's shoulders lifted defensively before he could control the reaction. His first instinct was to drop his bag and free his hands, but he was loathe, on this last occasion, to admit to the weakness of fear. So instead he raised his chin and tried to calculate how best to extract himself from the situation.

The Terran boy, known as Smiles among their peers, lived up to the moniker by grinning nastily. "So Halfbreed, finally getting out of here, huh?"

Spock ignored the comment with an ease born of practice. His gaze flickered past Smiles' shoulder, but he could see none of the other's usual companions.

"All Vulcans need to be coddled so long, or just you?"

"I have only today become a legal adult -"

"There's something not fair about that," the Terran insisted, suddenly striding into Spock's room. "We get kicked out of here when we're barely old enough to pick our own noses, but _you _get the special treatment, _you _get to keep enjoying the free hospitality until you're practically old and grey. What the fuck is _that _about?"

In a manner specifically designed to infuriate, Spock quirked an eyebrow. "Evidently, we have differing definitions of 'hospitality'."

Smiles' face instantly crumpled into a grimace of rage, and with no more warning than that he was looming forward. His fist struck Spock's cheekbone hard enough to send him stumbling backwards. Though only seventeen, he was taller than the Vulcan and fully accustomed to emerging victor from any encounter between them. But this was not the five-on-one beating which usually took place. Spock had no idea why the Terran boy had come alone this time, but he was gratified.

He let his bag slide from his shoulder and raised his fists. Smiles ducked towards him, aiming for a low blow, so Spock reached out and grabbed him as he came, pulling him closer and slamming his knee up into the other boy's stomach. He stepped back then, channelling calm, hoping that would be an end to the matter.

Smiles retched for a few seconds, bent double at the waist. He groaned and staggered until he could brace himself against one of the bedside tables, and Spock began to wonder if he'd inadvertently ruptured something. Then the Terran boy's hand closed over the round glowlight on the table and he was up and hurling it at Spock's head.

Spock ducked away, flinching. It was enough of a distraction to let Smiles crash into him unobstructed, slamming the Vulcan back against the wall. His forearm jammed up under Spock's jaw to keep him in place while his other hand pummelled the Vulcan's unprotected midriff, each blow punctuated by hissing vitriol.

"You alien - fucking - _freak_! Should have - died at - birth, Halfbreed! Should have -"

Spock surged away from the wall with all his strength - which happened to be considerably superior to that of a human, halfbreed though he may be. His head snapped forward, crashing into the other boy's mouth and bloodying his lips. One foot shot between his attacker's legs and the heel of his palm connected hard with Smile's breastbone. The Terran tripped backwards, arms pin-wheeling uselessly as he fell.

Spock was on him before he'd even hit the floor.

He had been attacked before in his time, humiliated and tormented by almost every Terran boy looking to ascend the primitive social hierarchy which existed here. It was something he usually endeavoured simply to endure, imitating that distinct Vulcan stoicism which was supposed to be his heritage.

But he had almost been free.

He had almost walked out of this place free and clear, an adult no longer required to suffer the violence and indignities of this hellhole he'd landed in.

He snarled his frustration as he landed atop the Terran, his weight alone enough to wind him. Smiles reached a hand up into his face, and Spock almost broke his wrist when he grabbed it and twisted. The Terran shouted in protest, writhing beneath him in an attempt to relieve the pressure. He rolled onto his stomach, and Spock used the new leverage to force his arm up between his shoulder blades. With his free hand he grasped the boy's tussled hair. He slammed Smiles' smirking face into the floor once, twice, three times until he felt bone break under his hands and the Terran howled wetly. Spock bared his teeth in furious satisfaction at the sound.

Victorious, he rose up slowly, standing with his feet planted either side of the Terran, his head cocked as he regarded him. The teenager flopped over onto his back. Smiles' nose was broken, bright red human blood streaming into his mouth and across the floor. He was crying, whimpering, batting ineffectually at Spock's shins.

The Vulcan reared back, abruptly horrified by the sight. Disgust clenched his stomach. All the rage that had fuelled him drained so quickly he felt chill. There was a reason these Terran children despised him.

He stood for a moment with his back turned, listening to the bloody gurgling of his felled opponent. He breathed purposefully, trying to centre himself, trying desperately to forget the feelings of transferred hate and revulsion that had assaulted his mental barriers with every glancing contact between them. Then, straightening his clothing with a perfunctory tug at the hem, he moved to collect his discarded bag. He slung it over his shoulder and strode for the door without a backwards glance.

He'd almost made it over the threshold when Smiles crashed into him from behind with an incoherent roar. They tumbled out into the hallway together, Spock's forehead striking the door frame on the way. Pain blossomed behind his eyes, blinding. As they landed, he brought his elbow back hard and fast, relishing the dry heave as it connected with the other's solar plexus. Smiles rolled off him, bleeding and gasping, but that wasn't enough now. Green rage filled Spock's vision, and he had his hand round the Terran's throat before he was conscious of the decision.

All the years these weak, petty little humans had tormented him, _subjugated _him, trapped him in here like a freak in a cage for Smiles and his ilk to poke sticks at. It was as if a damn had burst, as if the maximum capacity of his tolerance had finally been reached and exceeded.

Spock bared his teeth as the Terran punched awkwardly at his ribs and stomach, ignoring the blows with little difficulty. Smiles' eyes bulged, his nails clawing at the Vulcan's sensitive hands, but still he refused to let go. Through the contact, he could feel the other's animal terror, his furious fight or flight instinct, his wordless rage. All of it growing dimmer with every breath Spock denied him.

At last, almost too late, the Vulcan released his hold. Smiles sobbed in relief, but it was short lived.

Acting almost entirely on instinct, Spock slapped his palm cross one side of the Terran's face. Smiles had just enough time to flinch, and then Spock was hurtling wildly into his mindspace. It was crude and clumsy telepathy, unpractised, but he neither wanted nor needed finesse for this task. He crashed through the natural mental barriers that attempted to obstruct him, ran rampant along the foreign human thought pathways, thrashed in the torrent of human emotions which threatened to drown him - and only when he thought he'd invaded deep enough did he let loose the mental scream of fury, hatred and pain which had been building inside him most of his life.

Gasping, he reeled back from the Terran, landing on the floor of the hallway. It took him a few seconds to orient himself, to gather himself safely back within his own mindspace.

When he did, he assessed the damage.

Smiles was still lying on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling. Every so often, he twitched spasmodically, but gave no further reaction when Spock peered into his face. The Vulcan looked around, but the halls were mercifully empty. He grasped the Terran under the arms and dragged him quickly back into the room.

He lay him out on the floor beside one of the beds, pausing long enough to lower his ear to the boy's chest and assure himself that breath sounds were normal and that his heart was still pounding steadily. When that was done, he rolled him over onto his side so that the blood from his nose wouldn't drown him.

Then he left, closing the door gently behind him.

Expression carefully neutral, he set off down the hallway. He kept his pace normal and unhurried, and even remembered to wipe most of the blood from his face before he encountered anyone. He was uncertain of the extent of the damage he had just inflicted, and did not intend to seek clarification.

He was almost free.

There were already two other boys and a girl standing in reception when he arrived, lined up in front of the facility's director and a woman in a pilot's uniform. Spock quietly joined them, resting his hands in the small of his back to hide the fine tremor.

"Spock, S'chn T'gai," the director read from his PADD, fumbling the syllables. He appeared to tick off the name, then nodded decidedly. "All accounted for and ready to go, then."

The pilot was staring at him openly.

"Our resident Vulcan," the director explained when he noticed, sounding vaguely uncomfortable.

She looked surprised. "Vulcan? I thought this place was Terran-only."

No one seemed inclined to give further explanation, so Spock addressed her directly. "I am half-Terran, which has entitled me to residence here."

One of the boys couldn't seem to contain himself at that, snorting derisively. "I'd be careful how you throw that word 'entitled' around, Halfbreed."

"Yes. Well." The director cleared his throat pointedly, quelling them. "For the record, I need to confirm that you understand the following legalities. As you are now all come of age, you are no longer wards of the Terran Empire. Our responsibility to provide shelter, nourishment, education and legal protection is ended. We have provided access to transportation and a suitable amount of credits in order to ease the transition, but you will be expected to procure your own employment and residence once you arrive planetside. Is this understood?"

"Understood," Spock intoned with the others. He was still watching the pilot, who had yet to stop staring at him. On the front of her black uniform was pinned the Starfleet insignia, Earth shining in gold before an archaic sword. _Terra Magnum Imperium. _He had once been told it was designed to represent the formidable military strength which had always underpinned the Empire, but to Spock it looked almost as if the blade had been thrust into the planet's core.

"Excellent. If you will each place your right hands on the PADD as proof of that agreement, we can all be on our way."

Spock signed his contract with the others, then followed the pilot out to the shuttle which would finally take him to Earth.

xxx

**Stardate 2255.192.**

**Earth, Iowa.**

**Shipyard Bar.**

Jim lounged against the bar, nursing his bottle of beer and watching the crowd. It was almost an exclusively human gathering, with the sole exceptions of an Orion girl undulating around a pole near the back of the room and the weirdly conspicuous Vulcan bartender who liked to frown at Jim with his stupid pointy eyebrows. Strobe lights painted vivid colours across anonymous faces and tech-tuned music thrummed through the floor, vibrating in his chest like a second heartbeat. Girls twisted their hips to the rhythm while men prowled around them, ever hopeful.

For perhaps the third time in an hour he checked the device stashed in his pocket, yet again fitting his hand round it to check he could easily press the button when needed.

Academy kids had descended on the place tonight, garish in their red cadet uniforms. They were loud and rowdy, ordering drinks en masse and roaring wordlessly when they shot them back. Jim rolled his eyes each time. He finished his beer and ordered another with a hand gesture, eyes still scanning the dancefloor. It wasn't long before he spotted what he'd been waiting for.

Nyota Uhura slipped through the crush of bodies with feline grace. Clad in ass-hugging leathers, heeled boots and a shirt cropped to her midriff, she was certainly something to behold, and Jim had to hide a grin in his drink as he watched. Most regulars knew not to bother her by now, but every Academy uniform in the place all but stopped dead. Heads turned, eyes narrowed, and the sudden rush of pheromones was almost detectable.

She circulated for a minute or so, artfully garnering attention, before moving towards the bar not far from where Jim sat. She beamed at the bartender despite the blank expression he returned, and ordered something neon and sparkling. Jim kept his attention on the uniforms. Three of them in particular seemed to be working up their nerve, leering at Nyota and downing their drinks like shots of liquid courage. Evidently reaching some unspoken consensus, they started forward.

Jim let them get just close enough for the first of them to open his mouth in introduction, before sliding smoothly in front of them. He braced his arm on the bar beside Nyota, leaning blatantly into her personal space.

"Hey sweetheart."

She turned round, arching a brow at all four of them. "Boys."

Jim could feel three pissed off glares prickling the back of his neck, so he made a show of glancing dismissively over his shoulder and slurring like he was drunk. "Guys. Mind backing up a bit? You're kind of crowding us here."

The biggest of the uniforms sneered like Jim was something he'd wipe off his shoe. His eyes flicked to Nyota. "This hick bothering you?"

She gave a soft scornful little laugh. "This hick is _always _bothering me. Don't worry, I can handle him."

Jim winked in the most obnoxious manner he could manage. "You _could _handle me. That's an invitation."

"Hey," the cadet snapped. "You better mind your manners -"

"Oh relax, Cupcake. It was a _joke_." He squeezed the guy's shoulder with one hand.

Unnoticed, his other hand slipped the miniature scanner from his pocket, pressed it up close to the guy's shirt, and hit the go button. It beeped once, the noise lost in the music, to let him know it had successfully detected a credit storage device in near enough range. He pressed the button a second time, activating the illegally modded credit siphoning program he'd spent the last two months designing.

The cadet grabbed the front of Jim's jacket and pulled him up close - which was incidentally perfect, considering it kept them in tight enough proximity for the scanner to do its thing.

"Hey, farmboy. Maybe you can't count, but there are three of us and one of you."

"So get some more guys," Jim suggested, enjoying himself now. "Maybe it'll be a fair fight." And in a final act of provocation, he reached up and patted the guy condescendingly on the cheek.

He was fully expecting it by then, so he was ready when the cadet hauled back and punched him. Those gathered at the bar around them let out yelps of surprise. The adrenaline hit Jim before the pain, a spark of violent excitement racing through his veins. He grinned, and knew it to be an unsettling expression from the way 'Cupcake' hesitated.

Some rational part of his brain reminded him that he needed to keep close, at least for a few more seconds, so he grasped the cadet's shirt, pulled him flush, and brought his knee up into the other man's groin. Cupcake groaned and sunk against him, his weight effectively pinning Jim to the bar. People were backing away from them hurriedly, making space. All save Nyota, who was watching with narrowed, appraising eyes.

His scanner beeped a third and final time, task complete. He tucked it away.

Jim shoved off the bar with all his strength and Cupcake went lurching backwards, landing on his ass a few feet away. He would have laughed, but the next cadet was on him in an instant. Jim punched him twice in the face in vicious succession, then delivered a blow to the stomach hard enough to wind him. As the guy bent forward, Jim grabbed his shoulders and hauled, sending him careening towards Nyota.

He didn't get to see what happened. Arms came round him from behind and clenched, effectively trapping him. It would have been a perfect opportunity to set the scanner working a second time, but as it was he could only struggle to free himself as Cupcake loomed up in front of him. The cadet wore a look of incredible satisfaction as his fist ploughed into Jim's undefended ribs.

Jim grunted, body trying to curl forward. The guy behind him wasn't letting go, though, so he jumped instead, using the hold as leverage to bring both feet up and kick Cupcake square in the chest. The cadet pinning him collapsed under his weight, and suddenly Jim was rolling free across the sticky floor, high heeled feet scrambling away from him. He staggered upright, bouncing and eager. A table was right next to him and he grabbed a bottle, swinging it at the cadet who'd held him. It shattered against the side of his head in a magnificent explosion of glass, beer and blood.

A quick glance told him that the third cadet was still with Nyota. She was playing helpless, wrapped around him like she was scared of all this needless violence, but Jim saw her pocketing her own scanner and had to fight back a smile.

Satisfied that number three wasn't going to be a problem, he turned back to finish with the other two - and Cupcake's fist cracked into his face hard enough to make the world tilt.

He toppled backwards, landing spread-eagle across one of the tables. He was still gaping dazedly at the ceiling when Cupcake hauled him up by the front of his shirt and punched him again. Jim tasted blood. Another blow and his nose was bleeding. Another and another and Jim couldn't get his bearings enough to fight free.

A piercing whistle cut through the bar.

Immediately, Jim fell back onto the tabletop as the cadet released his shirt in order to snap a salute. He groaned as his spine protested. From his upside down vantage, he could just about see someone approaching, and squinted up at the face that peered into his own.

With his steel grey hair and distinctive eye-patch, Captain Christopher Pike was instantly recognisable. Jim had seen his face a thousand times on news broadcasts and Starfleet recruitment holovids. And the older man looked like recognition was dawning on him, too, if his growing frown was anything to judge by.

"So this is George Kirk's progeny. You look just like him."

Jim tried to lever himself up off the table, but it tilted under his weight and he rolled off, crashing onto the floor instead. He was pretty sure there wasn't a lifeform in the bar who wasn't standing there watching at this point, drinking in his humiliation like it was the new speciality on tap. Fuck it, then. He rose up on his knees, tilting his head back to offer up a bloodied grin.

"James T. Kirk, at your service."

Pike regarded him stonily. Lifting his voice, he addressed the room at large. "Look closely, cadets. This is what failure looks like. Let it be a warning."

Jim flushed, unable to stop himself.

The older man cocked his head, wearing an expression like he was examining some distasteful curiosity. "You should be serving the Empire, Kirk. You of all people."

"Oh yeah? Why's that?"

Pike's good eye was glacial. "Reparations. Sins of the father."

Jim let out a bitter sound that might have been a laugh. "He's got another son for that. Think I'll stick to the bar room brawls and hedonism, if that's okay with you."

The other man's lip curled. "Your father abandoned eight hundred men and women of the Empire to die in space when the _Kelvin _went down. Nice to see you carrying on that legacy of disgrace, kid."

And with that, Pike turned on his heel as if dismissing him from existence, striding out of the bar with a stream of obedient cadets scuttling after him. Jim remained kneeling there, eyes fixed on the floor. His face was burning, embarrassment and anger nearly indistinguishable. Tension in the room finally broke and conversation bubbled up again, a few nervous laughs ringing out loud and startling. The sound made him flinch.

He was still furiously trying to claw back a sense of dignity when a pair of shiny black shoes appeared in front of him, and Jim blinked at them for a second before looking up. The Vulcan bartender stared blandly back at him.

"Do you require medical attention?"

Jim leaned forward, and very pointedly spat blood onto one of the immaculate shoes. "Back off, Pointy. M'fine."

Nyota got there then, preventing any reply from the bristling Vulcan. She crouched down next to Jim, sweeping an assessing gaze over him. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He climbed to his feet with a wince and followed her as she strode from the dancefloor to one of the darkened seating areas. Jim collapsed unceremoniously onto the cushions and let out a gusty breath. "That was a good fight, all things considered." He grabbed a napkin off the table and held it to his nose, which had started to drip blood down his shirt.

"That depends on how much we got," she muttered, taking out her own modified scanner from the little purse she wore and joining him on the sofa. "You _did _manage to get it working in between getting your face beat to a bloody pulp, right?"

"Well I don't know," he snapped back. "Give me a minute for the concussion to clear and I'll tell you."

"Oh get over it, I've seen you in worse states."

He glared at her, digging in his pocket for the scanner. "Yeah, remind me again why my role in this partnership of ours mostly involves letting violent douchebags kick the shit out of me?"

"Maybe because you _enjoy _it? And anyway, I do my share of work. Remember the guy I let grope me for ten minutes while you stole that _stupid _fucking bike he owned?"

Jim smirked. He loved that bike.

The palm-sized scanner wasn't the prettiest bit of engineering he'd ever done, consisting mostly of cannibalised PADD components and doctored credit chips. The first two prototypes had been utter disasters, and he hadn't been _entirely _sure that this one would do any better when it came to the crunch. So it was something of a pleasant surprise to see the tiny screen flicker to life displaying credit that certainly hadn't been in his possession at the start of the night.

He whistled, impressed. "Only managed to get one of them, but I think I got his shore-leave bonus and then some. How much did your guy have on him?"

Nyota was staring at her own device, slow smile spreading across her face. "Jim. This has got to be nearly six month's wages."

His eyebrows shot up. "What, seriously?" He leaned over to check, dripping blood across the upholstery. "Shit. That's... more than we've had in ages."

"I can buy new shoes again!"

"Fuck that, we can buy _food_."

Jim sunk back into the cushions, thinking happily of a meal that actually _tasted _of something for once instead of the insipid attempts his ancient replicator spat out at him. His whole face felt sore and swollen, and his pride had taken a fair beating as well - but all in all, it had been a decent night.

Nyota nudged him. "We should get out of here, on the off chance they check their credit accounts again tonight."

Jim nodded, reluctant to move from his aching sprawl. "Yeah, probably."

"You're absolutely _sure _they can't prove it was us? Even if they suspected?"

"Nah. Should show up on a credit statement as a load of randomised purchases. Well. Alright, mostly porn. So yeah, they'll know they've been had, but not how or who did it."

She stood up and held out her hand. "Come on, Kirk." She pulled him to his feet, then linked her arm through his as they left the bar. The night air was warm and pleasant, illuminated by the acidic blue glow of the Riverside ship yard. They made their way over to where Jim's bike was parked, and Nyota climbed on behind him.

She laughed as he started up the engine.

"What? What's funny?"

"I just realised that poor cadet is going to have to explain why he blew six month's wages on porn."


	2. Chapter 2

**Stardate 2255.200.**

**Earth, Iowa.**

**Shipyard Bar.**

Having worked at the Shipyard Bar for just over three years now, Spock knew the daily routines of his customers well.

First there were the builders and engineers who worked at the shipyard during the day. They streamed in when their shifts were over, smelling of sweat and oil and heated metal. Younger workers would line up by the bar to socialize, while the older ones typically settled around tables. Mostly they did their best to ignore Spock, to avoid looking directly at his face as they purchased their drinks. He had no objection to this treatment. It was considerably more tolerant than the attitude of some Terrans he'd encountered during his time on Earth.

Come evening, the social atmosphere shifted considerably. It had taken him some time to parse the subtleties of this alteration and suitably accommodate it, but he now believed himself to be knowledgeable in the matter. A younger clientèle would invariably arrive as the sky darkened, and he had learned that they did not wish to sit comfortably and complain about their occupation, as the shipyard workers did. In fact, from his observations he could only conclude that they preferred as much _discomfort _as he was able to provide: chaotic lighting, music loud enough to strain the ears, the ability to consume alcohol so excessively they were forced to be violently ill. It was truly baffling behaviour.

There were also the tourists and passers-through to factor in, those who came to view the shipyard or who were simply travelling on the nearby highway. They were good for his profits, so Spock couldn't really object, although large groups like last week's Academy visit more often than not ended in trouble. The cadets had all departed back to Starfleet three days ago, however, taking with them both the temporary boost to his earnings and the greater potential for violence.

It left behind a quiet business, for once.

Spock carefully smoothed his hair back from his face. It had grown long enough to tuck neatly behind the pointed tips of his ears. He adjusted the soft material of his gloves, pulling them tight, making sure his sleeves overlapped them, then laid his hands flat on the surface of the bar.

There was nothing to do, and Spock found himself with little to occupy him but observation.

There was a particular Terran who was almost always present, at any given time or day. He liked to sit at the bar and order bourbon in a slow but steady stream as the hours passed by. He seemed to have no employment or other demands on his time, as far as Spock could deduce, and for a while he'd wondered how the man could even afford to sit there drinking each day.

Then he'd noticed the deals.

Men and women who were as often as not strangers to Spock's eyes would enter and move directly to the seat next to the reclusive Terran. Sometimes conversation would be exchanged. More likely, a credit chip and a PADD would be slid wordlessly across to him, and he would quickly pocket the chip and scribble something on the PADD with a stylus. Spock had glimpsed the screen once, under the guise of needing to wipe down that particular surface of the bar. The man was selling medical prescriptions, and obviously making a tidy profit doing so.

The Vulcan had never bothered reporting the matter. It was far from the only legal transgression which occurred here.

Presently, he made his way over to the Terran.

"Do you wish me to refill your glass, Doctor McCoy?"

The man donned his customary scowl. "You always gotta be so formal? You're slinging drinks, Spock, not serving canapés at a goddamn Starfleet banquet."

"Is that a no?"

"For the love of... _Yes, _refill my drink, you damn hobgoblin."

Spock pulled the bottle of bourbon from behind the bar and poured. "Hobgoblin: a creature from Terran mythology, originating from European folktales, generally thought to possess an undesirable green complexion and pointed ears. Is that a derogatory reference to my Vulcan biology, Doctor?"

"Was supposed to be. Lost some of its sting with your linguistics lecture, though."

"Very well. By that logic, I should simply deem you a low-functioning alcoholic, and refrain from further explanation or analysis."

McCoy snorted laughter, apparently unable to help himself, and raised his glass. "I do enjoy these heart to hearts we have."

Spock inclined his head, then went to go reorganise the drinks chiller.

xxx

The place was dead tonight. Jim didn't mind. He wasn't here to socialise.

He strode across the bar with a purpose in mind, determined, focused. This was absolutely going to work. Reaching the front, he hopped up onto the bar stool, ordered a beer, then turned pointedly to face the guy he'd sat down next to.

"So I hear you're the local Doc."

For a moment there was no response, then a dour glare turned towards him. "Yeah well I'm not practising, so if you're here to beg a free consult on your crotch-rot or whatever disgusting -"

"Woah!" Vaguely horrified, Jim lowered his voice to a hiss. "I do not have... _crotch-rot_! What the fuck?"

The guy side-eyed him for a second, then went back to his drink. "Well it's what most people want when they come over looking to make nice. Just assumed."

Jim stared at him incredulously. "Are you serious? People try to whip out their junk around you often enough that it's your go-to introduction?!"

The guy sighed. "What is it you _do _want, kid? I plan to pass out drunk by last call, and at this rate you're gonna make me miss my deadline."

So far, this idea was not panning out the way he'd expected, but he rallied. "Word is you give prescriptions, no questions asked."

"Sometimes. For a price." The doctor spared him an unimpressed once-over. "But no offence, you look like you can't afford shit, let alone -"

Jim slid a PADD across to him, displaying on screen his half of the takings they'd swiped from the unfortunate cadets a week ago.

The doctor let out a low whistle. "Well that's no small chunk of change. And what exactly are you hoping to buy with that?"

"How much felicium would it get me?"

The other man regarded him with a sceptical eyebrow. "Look. Whoever told you about me obviously didn't explain my policy. I'm not gonna be your supplier, kid. I fill personal requests only. Nothing that gets me unwanted attention."

The Vulcan bartender chose that moment to appear with Jim's beer and another refill for the doctor.

"Listen, I _swear _I can make it worth your time. If this isn't enough, there's more credit where that came from. If you just - I'm sorry, can I help you with something?"

The Vulcan had stopped to listen. At Jim's question, he quirked a pointed brow. "I apologise. I was simply thinking that Doctor McCoy was displaying rare wisdom in refusing your proposal."

"Excuse me?"

He hitched a shoulder ever so slightly. "One can only deduce, based on the sheer quantity of pharmaceuticals you are requesting, your ultimate intention is to then re-sell them to other consumers. Should he accept, there are only two real possible outcomes. In the first, Doctor McCoy does indeed agree to continue supplying you with product, eventually prompting superiors in the medical profession to question why he is prescribing such a high quantity of a controlled substance, and inevitably resulting in the loss of his licence and what little remains of his medical reputation."

Both humans stared at him.

After a few seconds, McCoy prompted hesitantly, "And the second?"

"In the second scenario, Doctor, you are only serving to facilitate your own competition. The young man is evidently ambitious, and would presumably have little difficulty establishing a wider network of clients than you yourself are able to maintain. While the upfront profit may be tempting, in the long-term you would only endanger your sole source of income."

Again, silence reigned for long moments.

Jim held out his hands incredulously. "Are you kidding me?"

The Vulcan's face remained impassive. "I assure you, I am not."

At that, McCoy threw back his head and laughed. "That answer enough for you?"

"Wait, you're not actually _listening _to this, are you? I'm not... You wouldn't... The dude's a fucking _Vulcan_, what does he know about selling meds?!"

The doctor was still chuckling, but his face hardened at Jim's outburst. "Put it this way. I find his logic a hell of a lot more appealing than some junkie upstart looking to make credits off of me. So scram, leave me to black out in peace."

Seething, Jim snatched up his PADD and his beer, then turned and stalked away. Nyota was still sitting where he'd left her, and made an inquisitive noise as he approached.

"It was a bust. Don't ask."

She smirked and cooed at him. "Aaaw, poor Jim. Your five-minute dream of being kingpin of Iowa, over before it began."

"Well it just sounds stupid if you say it like _that..." _He sat down next to her, resting his chin in his hands. "We've got to _do _something with this credit while we've got it, Yota. We've gotta... I don't know, _invest _in something, make it multiply."

She shrugged. "Why? The scanners worked perfectly, why can't we just keep using them?"

"And who the hell are we going to use them on? This backwater shipyard is the only populated area in a hundred miles. _Everyone knows us here_. Those cadets were a gift. Out-of-towners who are are now safely back out of town. But if everyone here suddenly starts turning up with empty bank accounts..."

"Yeah alright, I get it. Why did you even bother to build the things if you knew we could only use them once?"

He gripped her shoulder. "Oh we're going to use them again. Just gotta wait til we get the hell out of this place. Me and you get to a city, two in a billion, and we can be as rich as you damn well like."

She snorted, brushing him off. "Fine. You get right on that."

"I will." He stood up decisively. "But first, gonna go for a smoke. Coming?"

"No, go ahead."

Jim strolled out of the bar, digging in his jacket pocket for a cigarette. He lit it and moved out into the parking lot, kicking at the dirt. Taking a drag, he tipped his head back and blew a stream of smoke into the night air on a sigh of relief. Cigarettes weren't the tar-filled poison they'd been a couple of centuries ago, but manufacturers still pumped them full of nicotine. He'd been craving one all day.

A scrape of dirt behind him was all the warning he got, then something struck him hard in the side of the head. Jim saw stars, felt himself falling. His hands and knees hit the gravel, and then someone kicked him in the ribs. He fell on his side, and the next kick landed squarely in his stomach. All the breath left him in a painful rush.

He coughed and gagged, tried to blink himself back to clarity. Blood was streaming down his forehead, half blinding him. His head was spinning. Awkwardly, he got his knees under him again and tried to crawl, but someone immediately grabbed his collar and hauled him upwards. His back was slammed up against a car and a fist collided with his jaw, snapping his head back.

He reeled from the sudden onslaught, barely able to get his bearings. Slumped against the car, he shook his head stupidly and squinted up into a face he only vaguely recognised.

The cadet was holding something, a metal tire iron, and brandished it in Jim's face. He could see his own blood painting the tip. "Where is it, you little bastard? What? You didn't think we'd realise it was you?"

"Where's what?!"

The tire iron swung again, and Jim hunched away from it. It struck the car window where his head had been a second ago. Glass shattered, tiny shards littering the inside of his collar.

Jim brought up his knee, but it was clumsy and only struck the guy's leg. He pushed, using the car as leverage, and at least managed to free himself. Backing away, he kept one hand outstretched in a placating gesture, frantically trying to wipe the blood from his eyes with the other.

"What the fuck? What are you talking about?"

"My _credits_, asswhipe. I don't know how, but you and your whore girlfriend cleaned me out last week, and I want every last _fucking _bit of it back if I have to kick it out of you one credit at a time."

Jim placed him, then. The guy they'd stolen six month's wages from. Well shit.

"Look. I have no idea what your problem is, but I have nothing to do with it." He backed into another car and hurriedly sidestepped round it. "If you remember, _I _was the one you left bleeding on the floor -"

The cadet lunged at him, and Jim scrambled away. It was starting to dawn on him that the guy wasn't playing by barfight rules this time, if the murderous look on his face was anything to judge by. He was out to do damage.

"I missed my tuition payment, you fucker! I have to re-apply next _year_! I _know _it was you!"

"I swear, I don't -" Jim turned and started running mid-sentence. It wasn't his proudest moment, but he was smart enough to know when he was outmatched. His bike was out near the edge of the parking lot. If he could just get to it-

The cadet tackled him like a linebacker. Jim went down, tasting dirt, nowhere near his bike.

xxx

Spock had triple-checked the credit transfers for the night, adjusted the temperature on the drinks chiller, and circulated the room twice to wipe down tables and collect used glasses and empty bottles. The glasses had been neatly placed in the sonic cleaner, and the bottles were stacked in a plastite crate beneath the bar, waiting to be delivered to the recycling receptacle. No one demanded his attention, nothing required his supervision.

The Vulcan scanned the room a final time, ensuring that no sudden crisis was foreseeable if he was momentarily absent, then bent to pick up the crate of bottles. He passed into the kitchenette concealed from customers behind the bar, then keyed in his security code to the back door, stepping outside. The receptacle was around the side of the building.

He immediately detected the sounds of scuffle from the front parking lot, though at first thought little of it. He'd long discovered that physical fighting was a common pastime among intoxicated Terrans, and had ceased interfering after the third time he'd been struck by one of the participants. So he busied himself sliding the bottles one by one into the receptacle, listening to the crash of glass. It was almost filled to maximum capacity, but collection of recycled materials was due in the morning, so he was unconcerned.

Task finished, he turned to walk back into the building. A particularly loud thud and an abbreviated curse gave him pause, however. Spock glanced back over his shoulder, then reluctantly moved towards the parking lot. He reached the corner of the building and peered out across the cluster of gloomy vehicles. There was a flash of movement in the midst of them. At first only one Terran was visible, standing braced against a car, but as Spock moved closer it became apparent that he was kicking repeatedly at a second figure huddled on the ground. The Vulcan lengthened his strides, tossing the empty crate aside.

It was only when he was almost upon them that a flash of recognition caught him by surprise, and he realised that the one on the floor was none other than James Kirk, the con-artist who had propositioned Doctor McCoy not minutes ago.

"What is this?"

The Terran doing the beating barely spared him a look. "Fuck off, we're busy."

Kirk heaved out a breath as he was kicked in the stomach. He rolled over in an attempt to shield himself, but his attacker simply aimed for his kidney instead, making him arch backwards and flail in the gravel.

The Vulcan stepped forward. "That is enough. Whatever he has done -"

"He's paying back a debt," the Terran snarled, once again lodging his boot in Kirk's ribs. "Here, have a go. Let him work down his bar tab."

Spock reached out and clasped the Terran's shoulder with his gloved hand, pulling him backwards. The man came round swinging a weapon, but Spock ducked the clumsy blow easily enough.

"What the hell is your problem?"

"I am telling you to cease your assault and vacate this establishment."

"And I'm telling you to fuck off -"

Spock delivered a sharp, uncompromising jab of his fingers to the Terran's windpipe. The man let out an ugly gurgle, briefly clutching his throat, then swung again with what Spock now saw was a tire iron. The Vulcan blocked smoothly with his forearm, allowing the metal bar to slam against his ulna, simultaneously moving forward and forcing the Terran away from Kirk's incapacitated form. He deflected two more desperate blows aimed at his face, then brought the side of his palm down with finality on the Terran's clavicle. There was a sickening crunch. The man screamed and dropped.

It was all over in a matter of seconds.

The Vulcan regarded him critically. "This is the second time I am requesting you leave this establishment. I will not do so a third time."

He heard the door to the bar open behind him, then approaching footsteps.

"Jim?"

Spock looked back to see Kirk's female partner crouching beside him. He was trying and failing to sit up, coughing breathlessly until blood splashed down his chin. Bright blue eyes were fixed warily on Spock, one of them rapidly swelling shut.

The other Terran managed to regain his feet under his own power, although he had turned a shade of green not dissimilar to the Vulcan's own complexion, and was clutching at his damaged shoulder. The arm on that side hung useless. His face was thunderous, and Spock did not need skin-to-skin contact to sense the fury emanating from him.

"Your pet Vulcan isn't always going to be around, Kirk."

Spock stood his ground, prepared for the man to launch another ill-advised attack, but he settled for throwing one last venomous glare at Kirk, retrieving his tire iron and stumbling off across the parking lot. Spock watched until he got into one of the cars and drove away. Only then did he let himself relax incrementally, and turn to examine the two remaining Terrans.

Kirk had his hands cradled protectively over his side, face screwed up in a grimace. "Shit, that hurt."

"What the hell happened?" his friend demanded, sounding both concerned and extremely annoyed. "Was that one of those Academy students?"

"Yeah, wanting his credits back. Took me by surprise."

Spock began to walk back towards the building. "You were severely beaten. I shall summon a med-unit to attend -"

"No!" Kirk shook his head adamantly, still trying to force himself into a sitting position. "No med-unit, no hospital. It's fine. I'll walk it off."

"Jim -"

He fixed a pointed glance on her. "Not gonna happen. Just... give me a minute. No hospital."

She seemed to acquiesce, standing up and moving instead towards Spock, her boots crunching on the stony ground. She held out her hand as she approached. Spock glanced at it and made no move to respond. She shrugged.

"Think you can help me get him inside, maybe clean him up a bit?"

"I do not..." His gaze moved past her, to where Kirk had finally managed to drag himself into a sitting position, braced against the car. Even that small victory appeared to have cost him. Spock sighed. "Very well."

She smiled exquisitely, her eyes flickering up and down the length of him in an overtly flirtatious manner. "Thank you. I'm Nyota by the way."

He nodded in acknowledgement, then moved to aid Kirk.

Spock crouched next to him and grasped his wrist, guiding the Terran's arm round his shoulders in a perfunctory manner. He didn't particularly welcome the close contact, but he doubted Nyota would be able to lift him alone. Then he stood. Kirk groaned as he was elevated to his feet, clawing his fingers in Spock's shirt, but didn't exactly protest. As Nyota strode ahead, Spock half-carried, half-directed the injured Terran around the back of the building, where he keyed in his security code again and they shuffled awkwardly into the kitchenette.

"Do you have a first aid kit or something?" Nyota queried, looking around. "Ice?"

"Yes. But first I would suggest you fetch Doctor McCoy from the front room."

"A doctor? Even better."

"He is the extremely intoxicated Terran sitting at the bar, no doubt complaining loudly about my absence."

Her mouth twitched into an uncertain smile, then dropped when she realised he was in earnest.

"Sooner would be preferable."

She obediently turned on her heel and left the kitchenette. Spock took a moment to survey the room, then guided Kirk over to the metal table in the centre. He braced the Terran against it, stepping back cautiously. "Are you able to remain standing?"

"M'fine," Kirk muttered, averting his gaze. "Wish you'd both stop acting like I'm about to swoon." He was breathing in short, shallow gasps, one of his eyes was now swollen almost completely shut, and blood trickled sluggishly down the side of his face. He used his sleeve to dab at it. Spock moved to get him a towel.

There was a commotion at the door, and they turned to see Nyota bodily shoving Doctor McCoy into the room. He was trying to fend her off, looking thoroughly offended by the manhandling.

"He didn't want to move," she explained with a shrug, when Spock looked askance.

"Lady, if you don't get your grabby hands off me - Spock! What the hell is going on?"

The Vulcan gestured at Kirk. "He is in need of your medical expertise."

McCoy performed a strange double-take at the sight of Kirk, his expressive brows furrowing incredulously. "I _literally _just saw you five minutes ago. Good god, how do you even manage to do that much damage to yourself in so short a time?!"

"Didn't do it myself," Kirk snapped on a wheeze.

The doctor looked at each of them in turn. "And what do you expect _me _to do? Call him a med-unit and be done with."

"Not going to a -" Kirk broke off with a wince, holding his side.

Spock sighed. "He refuses to attend a hospital."

"So? What do you care?" McCoy demanded.

At that, the Vulcan was brought up short. Truthfully, he was unsure how or why he had become involved in the situation. He had no investment in the welfare of James Kirk. In fact, the Terran had been nothing but unpleasant to him during past encounters. It would be far simpler - and no doubt wiser - to do as the doctor advised, summon a med-unit and be rid of the predicament. His indulgence of Kirk's wishes could only be described as irrational.

"Can't you just examine him?" Nyota prompted, sounding impatient. "See if he even needs a hospital?"

"Of course he needs a damn hospital, look at him!" McCoy stomped closer, peering into Kirk's face without preamble. He moved his finger back and forth several times, watching blue eyes track after it, then used both thumbs to probe at the laceration at his temple. "You feel dizzy? Nauseas?"

"No."

"Just wait, it'll come." He turned back to Spock. "What exactly do you expect me to _do _here?"

"Mister Kirk sustained several traumatic blows to the abdomen that I witnessed. An examination is clearly in order."

"I know that, you green-blooded bastard! And he needs it performed with medical equipment and by a doctor who hasn't been mainlining hard liquor for four hours!" McCoy seemed to lose all remnants of composure then. "I am _drunk_, Spock! This isn't a good idea."

The Vulcan considered this for a moment, then cocked his head. "You once confided to me that you spent almost a year actively practising medicine while drinking profusely. Evidently you are adept at performing while intoxicated."

McCoy growled and stepped towards him.

Spock moved smoothly towards the door. "My presence is required at the bar. I shall leave you to debate the matter between yourselves."

xxx

The Vulcan disappeared, leaving Jim to flinch under the expression McCoy turned on him.

"Oh well this is just _perfect_. Don't even have a damn tricorder and I'm supposed to just patch you up on his say-so, am I?" Unceremoniously, he snatched away the towel Jim had been pressing to his forehead. "And this is going to need stitches since we're apparently heathens who don't use regen treatment."

"I'll find a first aid kit," Nyota offered, sounding vaguely amused.

"Good, and when you've done that you can help me get his shirt off. I want to check for internal injury before anything."

They tugged his jacket from his shoulders, then Jim lifted his arms stiffly and Nyota and McCoy peeled his T-shirt up and off him.

"I swear, I had a dream just like this once," he quipped, winking at both of them.

Nyota frowned, but McCoy just snorted in grim amusement. "Flirt all you like, ain't gonna make my hands any warmer. Lie down."

Disconcerted, Jim lowered himself gingerly onto the tabletop, hissing as the cold metal touched his back. His ribs ached fiercely and his stomach muscles clenched in protest as he tried to straighten. Discoloured bruising was already blossoming vividly across his skin. McCoy wasted no time on pleasantries, setting his hands on Jim's side and beginning to press and prod at each rib in turn, thoroughly ignoring Jim's wincing.

"So you know the Vulcan guy well?" he asked at length, if only break the uncomfortable silence.

"He serves my drinks, is all. Then again, suppose these days that makes him family."

Jim scoffed.

"Spock's not a bad sort. For a xeno. Looks a bit too Romulan for some, but after the third or fourth time he corrects your grammar, starts to look a little less threatening, yanno?"

Unbidden, a memory of the Vulcan breaking the cadet's collarbone like it was nothing flashed through Jim's head. He frowned sceptically, but said nothing.

"Definitely fractured a couple," McCoy decided at length. "Can't feel a full break anywhere though. Course, if we weren't trying to do this like we're living in the goddamn dark ages I could tell you for sure." Huffing irritably, he lowered himself until he could press his ear to Jim's chest. "Breathe in."

Jim did so.

"Deeper. It'll feel like you can't, but hopefully that's just the bruising tightening everything up."

"Hopefully?"

"Better than half a rib poking through your lung. Now shut up and breathe."

The doctor listened intently for several minutes, occasionally turning his head from side to side to use both ears. Jim stared fixedly at the ceiling the whole time, hurting and vaguely embarrassed. He could smell alcohol whenever McCoy turned towards him, but it wasn't like he hadn't been warned.

Finally, the doctor straightened. "Doesn't sound like there's fluid or trapped air, at least. But I'm telling you, you need a better exam than I can do here."

"This is fine -"

"Do you know how many things could be wrong with you right now that I can't find? For all I know, you've got blood collecting in your liver as we speak, and it's going to swell and _explode_."

Well really, Jim felt that was a little melodramatic, and probably less than medically accurate.

"Or you've got stomach acid pouring into your abdominal cavity. You know what that shit'll do to you?"

"No -"

"Or, oh I don't know, maybe you've got a haematoma that ruptures at any point during the next three months and you die suddenly of delayed internal bleeding -"

"Oh _come on_." Jim struggled to sit up, a little alarmed by the sheer enthusiasm with which McCoy predicted his various gruesome demises. "It's fine, _I'm _fine."

"I wasn't done."

"Well you are now." He looked around for his shirt, finally noticing Nyota still holding it. "Give me that."

She looked unimpressed. "Or what? You'll hobble over here and look pathetic at me?"

"Just _give _me it, Yota. We're going home."

McCoy held up his hands in defeat. "Alright, _fine_. No hospital. Just... calm down a minute."

Jim eyed him suspiciously.

"First thing's first. You've probably got concussion from whatever hit you upside the head." He looked pointedly at Nyota, giving the instructions to her like she was the responsible one. "That means no letting him sleep for at least four hours. If he's still walking and talking normally after that, should be fine."

She nodded.

"And no bandaging his ribs, either. Just restricts the breathing, breeds infection."

"Anything else?"

"Yeah. Y'all send some of that credit you were flashing around my way and I'll prescribe you pain meds that work a treat."

Jim scowled. "You're shaking me down?"

McCoy just shrugged unapologetically. "Price of a private consult, kid."

Nyota was already rummaging in the pocket of Jim's jacket. She fished out one of his credit chips and tossed it to the doctor. "That should be enough."

McCoy caught it, reflexes seemingly undiminished no matter how much he'd been drinking. It disappeared swiftly into his coat pocket, and in his other hand materialised a PADD. He tapped the screen a few times, then scribbled something with a stylus. "Just put an order through in your name, ready to pick up whenever. Nice doing business with you."

Jim thought that was a matter up for debate.

Nyota finally relented, and came over to help him get his shirt back on. He was shrugging back into his jacket, movements stiff and painful, when it occurred to Jim that at no point had he caught the doctor's first name. The man had all but felt him up, that was definitely first name basis. "Hey. What do I call you, anyway?"

"'Bastard' was my ex-wife's favourite nickname," was the quick response.

"Didn't end happily, huh?"

"Well _she _was certainly happy about it all. Took the whole damn planet in the divorce. All I got left is this bar and the bones holding me up."

Jim nodded awkwardly. "...Alright then. 'Bones' it is."

The doctor threw him a caustic glare.


	3. Chapter 3

**Stardate 2255.2223.**

**Earth, Iowa.**

**Kirk Residence. **

"_Breaking news - Romulans have launched an attack in the Sol System." _

Jim turned to stare at the plasma screen in surprise.

"_Approximately one point three Earth hours ago, a Romulan ship left warp within Imperial territory and proceeded to launch an attack on a space station in orbit of the Jovian moon Io. The space station, which functioned as a juvenile care facility for Terran minors, was completely destroyed in the assault. Starfleet ships responded immediately, pursuing the Romulans at warp speed as they fled the system, but as of yet no confrontation has been reported." _

Sitting on the edge of his bed, Jim shook his head in grim amazement. The Romulan-Klingon rebellion had been raging in the Empire for as long as he could remember, but this was the first time he could recall it striking so close to home.

"_A handful of emergency shuttles managed to escape the blast, but it is thought that over twelve hundred Terran lives have been lost to the unprovoked attack - the vast majority of them under the age of eighteen. It has been declared an act of terrorism the likes of which hasn't been witnessed in two centuries." _

"You listening to this?"

Behind him, wrapped in the sheets of his bed, Nyota was staring at the news broadcast with a puzzled frown. "Why a kids' home?"

"Shock factor?" Jim shrugged.

"Maybe, but... think about it. They've got the technology to sneak past Starfleet borders and appear in the middle of our system before anyone can do a thing about it, and all they do is blow up some meaningless space station? Why not the Luna defence base? Starfleet Headquarters?"

Jim looked back at the screen. They were showing images of the debris where the station had been. She was right. It was a tactically pointless move.

He stood up. "Want something to eat?"

"Not right now." She stretched, long legs kicking free of the sheets and making him hesitate about leaving the room or not.

Hunger won out.

Jim bounded down the stairs and into the kitchen, enjoying his regained freedom of movement. Three weeks had passed since the unfortunate incident in the Shipyard Bar's parking lot. The bruises on his ribs were a sickly yellow colour and still flared painfully if he twisted at the wrong angle, but McCoy had given him another once-over the day before and finally admitted he probably wasn't harbouring a haematoma time-bomb.

He placed an empty bowl and cup into the replicator, then programmed in his order and waited. The house had belonged to his mother's side of the family, which was the only reason they hadn't lost it along with George Kirk's commission. Built out in the exact middle of nowhere some time during the last century, modern amenities like the food replicator and sonic cleaning equipment were a relatively recent addition, and tended to look at odds with the old-fashioned Carpenter Gothic style of the place. Technically it was all in his brother's name, but Sam hadn't ever been back to reclaim it or kick Jim out, so he was content to remain the family sponge for now.

His replicator beeped to notify him, and he took out his breakfast of bland cereal, stale coffee and a slightly sour apple. It wasn't the most reliable of machines anymore, outdated by several years. He was more than a little tempted to spend his recent windfall on upgrading the damn thing. He missed eating food that tasted like food.

Still, it wasn't in his nature to skip a meal no matter how bad it was, so he set about spooning up cereal with determination.

The kitchen needed cleaning, he noted absently as he gulped coffee. Sam had left him one of those automated little dust-bots that was supposed to scuttle round while he was absent, but the thing had given up the ghost months ago and Jim hadn't yet bothered to fix it. He made a half-hearted attempt at wiping the counter he stood in front of, before deciding there were probably better things he could be going with his time.

Dumping the now empty bowl and cup into the sonic scrubber, he turned and made his way back upstairs. There was rarely much to occupy the mornings and afternoons, so most days typically began with long lie-ins, nursed hangovers, lazy marathons of e-net entertainment shows, and occasional bouts of convenient sex.

Nyota was dressed when he came back upstairs, to his vague disappointment. She was standing with her arms folded, staring intently at the plasma screen. It was still displaying the news broadcast and the wide-eyed reporter.

"Jim, listen to this."

"_We've just... We've just received an update on the three Starfleet ships which left to pursue the Romulans. They were... All three ships have been confirmed destroyed." _

Jim felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. He felt suddenly, irrationally vulnerable.

"_I repeat, all three ships have been confirmed destroyed. An emergency transmission made by Captain Anderson of the _ISS Normandy_ records the last harrowing minutes of the firefight, during which a collection of Romulan and Klingon ships waiting beyond Imperial borders succeeded in ambushing Starfleet, reportedly using unfamiliar weapons systems." _The reporter shook her head, glancing back at the pristine structure of Starfleet Headquarters behind her. _"I don't have any final figures on how many may have escaped in shuttles and lifepods, but Starfleet warships are known to carry a minimum of seven hundred crew members per vessel. This reporter can only speculate on the sheer loss of life that has taken place today." _

The screen cut to a harried looking Starfleet Commodore climbing the steps to the Headquarters, ducking away from the flurry of questions being hurled by a crowd of press representatives.

"...Shit," Jim said at last, in summation.

"What kind of 'unfamiliar weapons system' takes out three fully armed, pre-prepared warships? They're supposed to be rebels on the outskirts of the Empire, where are they getting all this tech?" Nyota sounded almost offended, like they'd skewed her world-view and she didn't appreciate it.

He shrugged. A cloaking device effective enough to let them sneak into the very heart of the Terran Empire was impressive on its own, let alone the raw firepower needed to take down three Starfleet ships. He wondered if the Romulans knew what they'd just done. This wasn't the petty uprisings and picking off of Terran cargo and surveillance ships. There was no way the Empire wouldn't see this as an act of war.

Still, he supposed there was an upside. If Starfleet went to war, the shipyard would be getting busier, and Jim could have his pick of easy marks.

xxx

It was late afternoon when the first announcement was made.

They were getting ready to go out, Nyota squeezing into her black jeans and Jim patting down his pockets to make sure he had the keys to his bike. The plasma screen was set to cartoons when it suddenly went quiet. They glanced at it, only to see the Starfleet insignia emblazoned across the screen. It remained there for ten seconds or more, before the image changed again and an automated voice explained, _"This is an emergency broadcast on all channels. Please stay tuned for an important Starfleet announcement. Repeat: this is an emergency broadcast on all channels." _

Admiral Archer was shown standing on a podium in front of a crowd of press representatives, Starfleet officers and cadets, and curious citizens who'd managed to gather round the edges. Decked out in his formal grey uniform and cap, chest glittering with the numerous medals of service pinned there, he looked grim and resolute. Surrounding him were stern looking lieutenants, their hands resting on badly concealed phasers at their hips. They were tense, eyes relentlessly scanning the crowd. Even those gathered to listen seemed solemn, with none of the usual hype and excitement of a Starfleet press statement.

Archer raised a hand, calling for attention.

"_For too long now we have tolerated the defiance of the Romulan and Klingon races. For decades they have resisted our rule, broken our laws, spurned our people. And finally, with these acts of unforgivable terrorism, they have declared open warfare on the Terran Empire. No longer will we turn a blind eye to the crimes of these aliens. No longer will we allow enemies to strike at the heart of us." _

A susurrus of agreement swept through his audience. The camera gave a panning shot of people nodding in agreement, one or two clapping to emphasise the sentiment.

"_By Imperial decree, Starfleet has been authorised to prepare for active engagement. Effective immediately, commercial travel throughout the Alpha Quadrant is terminated. Military presence in all systems is to be increased, both within Starfleet vessels and positioned planetside on all local worlds. Anyone suspected of aiding, conspiring with, or otherwise sympathising with the Romulan-Klingon rebels will be detained at the discretion of Starfleet operatives." _

Jim could translate that last part easily enough. All non-human citizens had just been declared de facto suspects. While Earth didn't exactly have a high xeno population to begin with, he suspected it would be dwindling even further soon enough.

Onscreen, Archer was quiet for a protracted moment, pointedly looking into each attentive face and then the camera which hovered a short height above them. His eyes were hard.

"_I have only one final announcement to make. And while I'm sure there will be those among us who raise voices in dissent, I have faith that the majority will strive to remember the thousands of innocent lives lost on this single day, and embrace the necessity of what must now be done._

"_As of the moment this broadcast airs, compulsory conscription into Starfleet military is reinstated throughout the Empire." _

There was an immediate outcry from the gathered crowd. The reporters in the front row all began asking questions at once, hopelessly talking over each other. The cadets present looked surprised, whispering to each other and to their superior officers. But the biggest uproar came from those at the back and far edges, the everyday citizens who'd come to watch. Their voices rose in chaotic protest, panicked, angry, indistinguishable. The camera seemed to lose audio for a minute, in a blatant display of censorship.

On his podium, Archer waited with his hands clasped behind his back, perfectly unmoved by the riotous reception. He remained like that for an almost unbearable amount of time, silent and implacable. Only when the shouting finally settled, and his audience stood there tense and unhappy and waiting like chastised children, did he finally deign to speak again.

"_I take no pleasure in exposing civilians to the grim reality of war, but in order to combat the growing threat of the Romulan-Klingon alliance, this is the step we must take. Conscription implants have already been distributed to law enforcement officers, and in the coming days will be issued to all eligible persons capable of defending this Empire. You will be given further details of assignments upon receiving your implant. _Terra Magnum Imperium_." _

He left the podium, and the camera swept to a neutral view of the Starfleet Headquarters building.

Jim found himself on his feet, jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached.

"They can't do this!"

He turned to Nyota in disbelief, needing to see his own reaction mirrored. She did look shocked, but nowhere near the horrified outrage Jim felt was justified here.

"What the hell? Tell me they can't do this!"

"Well... Conscription hasn't been sanctioned since the First Contact War, but -"

"Fuck Starfleet, I'm not being dragged into a war I couldn't give a shit about!"

He stalked furiously across the room, then back towards the bed, then to the door. "How are you not more angry about this?!" he demanded eventually, throwing his arms out to demonstrate the full scale of the injustice. "_Conscription_, Nyota. They might as well call us canon fodder!"

She tossed him a haughty glare. "Speak for yourself. When we met I had every intention of joining Starfleet, remember? That's why I was at the shipyard in the first place. So maybe that plan just got a little... delayed."

He scoffed, amazed at her naivety. "You're not gonna be an officer or a specialist, you know. You'll be a _conscript_. If you're lucky, they'll give you a phaser before they throw you at the Klingon horde."

She frowned.

"Our life expectancies _literally _just got cut short, you understand that, right?!" He walked over to her and gripped her shoulders, then the sides of her neck, pressing his forehead against hers. "Yota, this isn't a good thing. It's not an opportunity. Starfleet doesn't care about the likes of you and me. We get caught up in this, we die."

"You don't know that for sure," she said, but she seemed to have thawed a little. She thumped him in the chest with the heel of her hand. "And stop being so damn sappy. Get off me, Kirk."

He flashed her a grin as he backed up. "That's my girl."

"Shut up."

He glanced around the room, then seemed to come to a decision. "So I'm thinking we should pack."

"What?"

"We should just... take off, get out of here."

"And go where?"

"I don't know, anywhere! Just as long as it's not sitting around here waiting for someone to knock on the door and drag me off to fight fucking Romulans and Klingons." Even as he ranted, he slid open a concealed storage space in the wall and tugged out an empty travel bag, tossing it onto the bed. Then he went to the dresser, opening each of the drawers and flinging anything that looked even vaguely necessary in the bag's general direction. Underwear, shirts and a second pair of jeans tumbled haphazardly through the air.

"It'll be great," he went on, distracted in trying to shift through some junk on the floor to find his PADD. "We'll do what we said. Get to a city, use the scanners, stay anonymous. We do that long enough, this whole thing will have blown over before we have to worry."

Nyota rolled her eyes. "The Empire just went to war, it's not 'blowing over' any time soon."

"Would it kill you to help?!"

Sighing, she set about folding the clothes he'd tossed her way and placing them quickly into the bag. "Any of my stuff coming with us, or is your collection of drop-out chic too extensive?"

He threw her bra at her head.

They moved round the house at a whirlwind pace, grabbing up clothes, valuables and necessary gadgets. Nyota used the replicator to produce a stash of food that would travel well for at least a few days and stuffed it all into air-sealed bags. When she was done, Jim had the presence of mind to remember to switch off the house's main power supply. It felt strangely final, and he wondered for the first time if he'd ever have cause to come back here.

Their frantic preparations were done in just under an hour. Jim hoisted his bag over a shoulder. "You're sure you want to come with me, then?"

Nyota looked up from where she was making the final adjustments to her own bag, giving a humourless smirk. "Where else do I have to go?"

He took that as the enthusiastic agreement he was sure she'd intended. "I'll be outside. Don't be long, I want to get going before it's dark."

He skipped quickly down the stairs, out through the front door and into the mild Iowa evening. He was just beginning to consider the logistics of getting both of them and their luggage onto his single bike when he saw it.

Jim froze halfway down the driveway, travel bag hanging heavy in his hand.

Standing in front of its own bike, the robotic officer scanned up and down the length of him, before its synthesised voice announced, "Your physical appearance falls within the parameters of one James Tiberius Kirk, the recorded occupant of this residence. Is this an accurate identification?"

"...No?" Jim tried, hopeful.

The officer ignored his negative response, apparently holding more confidence in its own facial recognition abilities. It walked closer to him, heavy soled boots kicking up dust clouds.

"This unit is hereby charged with informing you that due to your current lack of gainful employment, you are considered by Imperial authorities to be a priority candidate for conscription into Starfleet military." His faceless helmet tipped slightly to one side. "Congratulations, citizen."

"Congratulations?" Jim repeated faintly, very nearly impressed that he'd just been sassed by a robot. Surely this wasn't happening, not _for real_. Since when was any new government policy _this _fucking efficient? He shook his head. "Look, I _absolutely _have gainful employment. I work at... at this bar down the road."

"Your last registered occupation was terminated four hundred, seventy two days ago, due to repeated incidents of petty theft."

"It's a _clerical error_, you walking heap of scrap metal! I have a job!"

"If this is indeed the case, you may appeal your conscription through Starfleet channels. Should your former occupation be deemed a valuable contribution to society, you may be released from your obligations prematurely. At this time, however, this unit is required to administer your Starfleet conscription implant."

The officer raised its right arm, and something that looked like an unholy cross-breed of hypo and weapon slid smoothly from the metal joint of its wrist.

Jim dropped his bag, almost tripping over it in his haste to back away. "You're not _implanting _me with -"

It moved faster than he was expecting, closing the distance between them before Jim even had a chance to react, and when it grasped his wrist it might as well have clamped a manacle on him. He tried to pull away in sudden panic, his heels digging into the ground, but if the officer even noticed his struggling it didn't show.

"Don't you fucking _dare_! I am _not _consenting to this -!"

Completely unperturbed, it proceeded to angle the injection point of its terrifying looking hardware to the inside of Jim's elbow. There was a soft mechanical hiss, a split second of disbelief, and then pain shot through his forearm.

He yanked away in horror. This time the officer let him go without protest, and Jim landed on his ass in the dirt. He grasped his arm, staring at it like it was suddenly a foreign appendage. "No, no, nonono...!" A pinprick of blood beaded on his skin, drying even as he watched.

"You are to report to Starfleet Headquarters, located in San Francisco, California, within a week of receiving your Starfleet conscription implant. Any travel expenses incurred may be reclaimed from Starfleet. Failure to appear will result in an enforcement officer such as this unit locating and escorting you to Starfleet Headquarters. Tampering with or attempting to remove your Starfleet conscription implant is a crime punishable by time served in a penal colony after your service to the Empire is completed.

"Your cooperation is appreciated, citizen."

Jim just squinted up at it, too stunned to feel anger yet. There was a noise behind him, and he looked back over his shoulder to see Nyota standing in the doorway, obviously having just witnessed the whole incident. Her mouth was pressed into a tense thin line.

The officer's helmet tipped slowly up and down in that unnerving scanning motion as its attention turned on her. "Your physical appearance falls within the parameters of one Nyota Penda Uhura. Is this an accurate identification?"

She remained scornfully silent.

"You have neglected to update your official place of residence for three hundred, thirteen days. This unit's databases indicate you still reside within the African Confederacy. This is inaccurate. You are also without gainful employment."

"Let me guess - I'm a priority candidate too?"

"Affirmative. This unit will now administer your Starfleet conscription implant."

It stepped over Jim and moved towards her. Evidently she'd noticed exactly how useless his escape attempt had been, and elected instead to maintain her dignity. She remained still and poised as it clamped a metallic hand around her wrist and injected a second implant into her forearm, only her glacial expression betraying her distaste.

Task done, the officer began to repeat its terms and conditions speech.

She sneered. "I heard your spiel the first time."

It ignored her.

Only when it had completed a second rendition of its programmed speech did it retreat, stomping mechanically back towards its hoverbike without a backward glance. They watched as it mounted the vehicle, shifted into gear, and guided the bike serenely away from Jim's house. The whine of its engine grew quiet as the officer reached the highway and took off in the direction of the shipyard. When it disappeared completely, all that could be heard was the faint rustle of cornstalks in the breeze and a bird flapping somewhere overhead.

Jim stood up, still holding his arm away from himself like it was something repulsive. He walked back into the house, pushing roughly past Nyota. She turned and followed him.

"What are you doing? Jim, stop, leave it alone."

He let out a mildly hysterical laugh. "Leave it alone? Screw that, I told you I'm _not _joining Starfleet. I'll cut the fucking thing out if I have to."

He reached the kitchen, striding immediately to the utensil drawer and pulling it open so forcefully it nearly came off its sliders. He fumbled through the contents, looking for a sharp enough knife.

Nyota dragged him back. "Don't be so stupid. The thing's microscopic. You'll butcher yourself long before you find it."

"Well I have to do _something_!" He cast around helplessly for inspiration. "What about McCoy? How much credit you think it'll cost to get him to take it out?"

"They'll arrest you both if you try it," she pointed out, infuriatingly reasonable. "And anyway, in all likelihood he's got his own implant to worry about by now. They're going to snatch up doctors, alcoholic or otherwise."

"Well what do _you _suggest?"

"I..." She chewed her lip, then visibly deflated. "I don't know. But _slicing it out _isn't an option."

Running wasn't an option either, now. There was no doubt in Jim's head that the implants were traceable. He slumped back against the counter, scratching aggressively at the pinprick cut on his arm. His mind raced, looking frantically for an escape route like an animal trapped in a snare, but over and over it kept running into the same looming, unhelpful thought.

He didn't want to die a Starfleet footsoldier.

"What if we could disable them somehow?" Nyota said abruptly.

Jim squinted at her. "What?"

"Well, we could leave them in but try and stop them working. An EMP maybe. Or a sonic pulse? It'd have to be something we were _sure _would work. We'd only get one shot."

"And we'd have to be ready to get the hell out of dodge right afterwards," he added, snatching up the beginnings of the idea and turning it over for inspection. He looked at his arm. "How fast do you think their response time would be? Not like we can afford a test run."

"No, but we could give ourselves a head start if we -"

She fell silent.

Jim waited for her to finish the thought, distracted in trying to organise all the shiny new ideas appearing in his head. When she remained quiet, he glanced up.

His breath caught in surprise.

White light was coalescing all around her. Nyota was staring down at herself in bemusement and growing alarm.

"Yota!"

He reached out to grab her, and it was only then he noticed that the motes of light were circulating around himself as well.

Instinctively, they both turned to run, to try and outpace the transportation energy, but it was already too late. Jim couldn't see for light, couldn't feel his kitchen floor beneath his feet - and then he knew nothing at all, disappearing into the atmosphere in a final flare of radiance.

xxx

They materialised in a cage barely big enough to hold both of them.

It was nearly pitch black, wherever they were, and he squinted blindly out into the darkness. His hands groped around and found metal bars on all sides. Next to him, Nyota did the same. He could feel her quickened breath on his neck. Neither of them dared make a sound, all senses straining for some sign of where they were. Some half-crazed part of Jim thought maybe they'd been overheard plotting their escape, and been beamed directly to the penal colony the officer had threatened them with. In growing desperation, he wrapped his fingers around two of the bars and tried shaking. When they didn't so much as vibrate, he steeled himself and called out, "Hello?"

They waited.

Out in the darkness, footsteps padded closer. A figure seemed to slide right out of the shadows in front of them, and both Jim and Nyota pressed themselves back against the far wall of their cage at the sight of him. This wasn't a Starfleet penal colony, Jim realised pretty quickly.

With his pointed ears, severe brows and tattooed face, the grinning Romulan looked like a nightmare straight out of Imperial propaganda.


	4. Chapter 4

**Note: **This story us also available on AO3 or the K/S Archive if anyone would prefer to follow it there (better formatting tbh). I'm known as Sakuri on those sites too if you want to look me up, and Verayne on tumblr if you want to follow for story updates and general ST fandom.

x

**Stardate 2255.2223.**

**The **_**Nerada. **_

**Coordinates unknown. **

Spock had been walking when the transporter beam took him. Upon re-materialisation, he managed to halt his own momentum promptly enough to avoid collision with the bars abruptly surrounding him, although his companion wasn't quite so fortuitous. Doctor McCoy swore loudly as he crashed into the front wall of their cage, falling back against Spock in surprise. He then proceeded to thrash about the dark, confined space, radiating alarm.

With his superior Vulcan vision, Spock didn't need to map out his new surroundings through blind fumbling. He immediately took note of the restrictive dimensions of the cage around them, identified James Kirk and Nyota in a similar predicament to their right, and warily observed the three armed Romulan guards standing a short distance away. All this was catalogued in an instant, and he then spared a moment to try and form these disparate facts into a coherent explanation for what had just occurred. He was disconcerted when nothing presented itself.

"Spock? That you? Where the ever loving hell are we?"

"Spock?" repeated Kirk from his respective cage, trying to peer through the gloom. "McCoy?"

It quickly became apparent that none of the Terrans possessed any meaningful range of vision in the dim environment as all three began to call out to each other in confusion, establishing identity and location. It was only Spock who could see their Romulan guards exchanging amused glances.

"Where are we?" Doctor McCoy asked again.

"Best guess?" Kirk drawled. "Romulan ship."

"What?!"

Spock kept his attention on the guards, still determinedly trying to calculate the most likely scenario. Kirk's estimation that they were aboard a vessel seemed accurate, as he could detect the faint vibrations of an engine somewhere beneath them. That it was Romulan was also probable, given their recent presence in the system and the obvious ethnicity of the guards. In fact, Spock's only objection to the assumption was that it made no _sense_.

He drew closer to the neighbouring cage, lowering his voice. "How long have you been here?"

"About an hour?" Nyota answered.

"Has there been any indication of what they want with us?"

"No, they haven't spoken to us yet, just... left us here."

"You are mistaken," he informed her quietly. "They have not left."

The Terrans fell silent, a frisson of unease passing over them. They had effectively been rendered helpless by the lack of light, Spock realised; prey clustered in the darkness, unable even to sense the nearness of danger.

The doors of the room suddenly slid open, light from the corridor dazzling all of them. Spock squinted against the sting, watching as another Romulan entered. Their three guards saluted sharply at the sight of him. The newcomer ignored them, eyes fixed intently on Spock.

"You're finally here," the Romulan said, sounding almost reverent.

"Where the fuck is 'here' and why do you want us?" Kirk demanded, bristling with aggression. While Spock wouldn't have phrased it in quite those words, he agreed wholeheartedly with the sentiment.

The Romulan didn't even glance Kirk's way, apparently uninterested in anyone but Spock. He made a beckoning gesture. "Get him out of there."

Immediately, two of the guards jumped to obey. They opened the cage door with a swipe of a hand-held device, reached inside and dragged Spock out unceremoniously. When Doctor McCoy tried to follow, he was given a casual shove and crashed back against the bars with a pained groan. Spock found himself manhandled forward and presented to the Romulan as though for inspection.

"Spock. It's been a while."

He raised an eyebrow. "I was unaware we'd ever been acquainted. I'm certain I would remember."

The Romulan only made a sceptical sound and turned to leave the room. Spock was prompted to follow by a weapon pressed to the small of his back. As they left, he could hear Kirk yelling after them with a note of panic in his voice.

"Hey! You can't just _leave _us here! Come the fuck back!"

The doors slid shut on him, silencing his protests.

They walked in single file, past other Romulan crew who stared with undisguised curiosity. Spock studied them in turn, noting the lack of uniform, the mismatched pieces of armour, the general lack of discipline - until one of the guards jabbed him in the back again, and he turned his gaze forward.

"My name is Nero, by the way. Captain of the _Nerada_."

Spock filed away the information, but made no effort to reply. He was too absorbed in examining the ship's interior. They had obviously been kept on a lower deck, likely intended for storage and transport if the crates of supplies stacked around the edges of the corridors were anything to judge by. Cables ran loose along the floor, tangled in places and damaged in others. Sometimes whole wall panels had been removed to expose the wiring beneath.

Nero led them to a turbolift and they ascended for several seconds. When they disembarked, it was to enter a room that seemed to function as the captain's quarters. It was barren and sparse, a flat pallet bed on one side of the room and a metal table in the middle.

"Leave us," Nero ordered, and the other Romulans withdrew, allowing the doors to slide shut behind Spock. He stood tense and waiting, unsure what to expect.

"Have a seat," the Romulan instructed, moving to occupy one of the two metal chairs himself.

Spock hesitated for a moment, before realising that little he did or did not do here was likely to restore any control of the situation to him. He complied, lowering himself cautiously until he was eye to eye with the Romulan captain.

"Why am I here?"

"You're here because I demand it. Do you know how long I've been looking for you, Spock? How many years wasted?"

Bemused, the Vulcan tilted his head in question.

"When you didn't join Starfleet in 2250, I assumed you'd remained on Vulcan. I must have scanned that entire sand-blasted planet. I even interrogated a few of your oh-so-logical kin, when I could get my hands on them. Imagine my surprise when not a one among them seemed aware that a half-breed even existed, let alone where I could find him. You're nothing very special in this universe, are you Mister Spock?"

He felt annoyance and quickly pushed it down. "I remain unaware of how you claim to know me."

Nero continued speaking as if he hadn't been interrupted.

"I was starting to give up hope. With this infernal Terran Empire crushing every half-intelligent species under its boot heel, maybe you'd never even been born! It's illegal now, isn't it? Interspecies procreation? You're a strange little abomination to most, aren't you?"

Spock lifted his chin. The anger was harder to repress this time, an old primal thing that had been with him since childhood. He stayed silent, afraid he would betray himself if he spoke.

"And after all my effort, it was only coincidence I finally heard rumours of you. Do you know how galling that is? Took out a Starfleet surveillance ship that came too close to Romulus, swept up the survivors. I've made sure it's always common practice for my men to ask after a half-Vulcan freak when they're interrogating prisoners, but I hardly expected some lowly ensign to start babbling about how he grew up in a _Terran orphanage _with that very same halfbreed."

Spock frowned. "You are implying that _you _were responsible for this morning's attack on the juvenile care facility... simply because _I _was raised there?"

Nero gave a sharp, unpleasant smile. "Oh no, Spock. I blew it up because you were gone already, and they were careless enough not to keep records of where I could find you. I'm afraid my patience these days isn't what it used to be."

The Vulcan stared, struggling to process the admission.

"But it all worked out in the end, didn't it? Starfleet can be wonderfully efficient when you're least expecting it. There I was trying to figure out how I was going to scan that human-infested planet while the entire system is bristling with Imperial firepower - and instead you just... appear on my computer system. A Starfleet conscript. And not just you, but the great James T. Kirk and his associates. I'll admit, I'm curious to meet them."

"I... can only infer that you are mistaken in your perception of us. James Kirk falls short of 'great' by any definition of the word. He is a petty thief and con-artist - not even especially skilled in those fields, from what little I know of him. I fail to see how he, Nyota, Doctor McCoy, or indeed myself could be of any interest to you."

Nero threw back his head and laughed, slapping the table between them like Spock had shared an infinitely amusing joke.

"I keep being surprised by the differences here. You'd think I'd be used to it by now."

"Differences?"

The Romulan smiled, cold and slow. "The biggest shock was this... _Terran _Empire. Tell me, how were humans allowed to become the ruling class in this universe?"

"The Terran Empire was established during the First Contact War almost two hundred years ago. How can this possibly come as a 'shock'?"

"I gather you Vulcans let them steal their first spaceship from you. Typical of your kind - you just can't help but interfere, can you?"

Spock felt like he was rapidly losing the thread of this exchange. He was accustomed to the frequent non-sequiturs and false starts of human communication, but this felt different. It was as though he was missing an entire dimension of the conversation.

"I must ask again why I - we - have been brought here. We have no affiliation with your rebellion, nor have we actively opposed it."

Nero's whole demeanour changed then. The façade of amusement fell away, and his feverish glare bore into Spock with discomforting intensity.

"No. All you did was let my planet burn."

The Vulcan revised his earlier theory. He was not missing anything. Nero was clearly suffering a delusional disorder.

"I was under the impression that Romulus was faring well, taking into account its exclusion from the Empire."

Nero sneered. "You think that pathetic shadow of my world is 'faring well'?" He leaned across the table, lowering his voice to a furious hiss. "I got here to find them grovelling in the dirt to their human masters. Humiliated. _Impotent_. I've had to drag them kicking and screaming to their freedom. My once-proud Romulus..."

"And how does any of that relate to myself?"

Nero stood up, metal chair clattering backwards. He stalked around the table until he loomed over Spock. "Always the same. Even here, even in this miserable, _pathetic _version of yourself - that arrogance, always the same." He leaned down, hot breath unpleasant against the Vulcan's ear. "I'm telling you, Spock. It'll get you killed one day."

xxx

Jim tried to make himself comfortable, stretching his legs out across the floor until his boots pressed against the opposite wall of the cage. Bars dug painfully into his back as he tried to lean against them, but there wasn't a whole lot of options in terms of space. Nyota sat next to him, her arms wrapped tightly around her drawn up knees. At least, he thought that was how she was sitting from what he could feel of her at his side. He still couldn't make out much in the dark.

"Why'd they have to turn off the lights?" he complained, mostly just for the sake of something to say. With nobody making much sound, he was starting to feel deaf as well as blind.

"It's called sensory deprivation," McCoy's disembodied voice growled from the next cage. "Bastards are trying to loosen us up for something."

"Like what?"

"Hell if I know. I'm still mostly convinced this is all a drunken hallucination on my part."

Unseen, Jim rolled his eyes.

They lapsed again into silence. Without the distraction of conversation, the darkness bothered him. It felt like a physical thing; a weight; a blindfold pressed too tightly on his eyes. He kept blinking in the expectation of clearing his vision, unable to convince his brain to accept the situation.

"Why do you think they took the Vulcan?" he asked at length, needing something else to focus on.

He felt Nyota shrug. "Maybe he knows them? That Romulan called him by name."

"You think he's working with the rebellion?"

McCoy snorted dismissively. "Spock's not a sympathiser, trust me."

"How do you know? He's xeno. Maybe -"

"Not every xeno wants to trade the Empire for Romulan and Klingon overlords. And anyway, Spock got marched out of here with a gun in his back, in case neither of you noticed. Didn't seem like a friendly reunion to me."

Jim conceded the point reluctantly. He let his head fall back in frustration, resting between two of the bars. "Why the hell are we here? Seriously, what the _fuck _do Romulans want with us? I'm open to wild speculation." One minute they were being packed off to war, the next they were aboard the enemy ship. His head was still spinning. "You'd think unwilling conscription would be the big drama of the day..."

"You got chipped as well, did you?" McCoy muttered. "Robo-cop turned up at the shipyard and got us too."

Jim turned in the doctor's general direction. "What, you and Spock? So it _is _related to us being here. Too much of a coincidence that we all got implants minutes before being beamed up."

"Well, it wasn't just us. It picked out anyone not 'adequately contributing to society' and injected them on the spot. And Spock just because he's xeno, I think. Automatically a waste to society on this planet."

It still couldn't be a coincidence, Jim thought, although for the life of him he couldn't think of anything that made them particularly special.

"Wait, isn't this a good thing?" McCoy asked.

"How so?"

"Starfleet use these things to track us, right? They'll know we've been taken. Might send help."

"For four unimportant losers?" Jim scoffed.

"Anyway," Nyota added, sounding despondent. "It's far more likely they'll think we're deserters and sympathisers who escaped conscription on a Romulan ship."

Jim winced. She was right.

Nyota huffed a breath. "Well, if I ever _was _supposed to join Starfleet, there went my last chance."

He felt a twinge of guilt, although he wasn't really sure why. It hadn't been his fault she'd changed her mind. He lowered his voice, trying for as much privacy as their enclosure allowed. "Why didn't you? Join Starfleet, I mean. You said you were going to, when we met..."

She didn't answer at first, but he heard her shifting restlessly. She straightened her legs across the floor, stretching forward like she was trying to touch her toes, and stayed like that for a minute or so as if debating how to answer.

"I suppose it just... felt like a trap," she whispered eventually. "I wanted more freedom than a Starfleet uniform and a lifetime commission. Playing games with you wasn't exactly the limitless easy money I thought it was going to be, but at least I made my own decisions." She gave a bitter little laugh. "Of course, I say that from inside a _cage_, so..."

"We'll get out of here," he promised, with all the surety of someone who simply couldn't accept another outcome.

xxx

The interface on the captain's door beeped twice. Nero glanced towards it, then back at Spock. "Stand up. We have company."

The Romulan rose smoothly from his chair and strode across the room, long leather coat sweeping behind him. He slapped a button on the control panel and the doors slid open, admitting into the room the three guards who had previously escorted him - and standing between them, another Vulcan.

Spock got to his feet warily as they entered. The Vulcan was staring at him, so Spock studied him in turn. In truth, he had never had occasion to see another of his kind outside a computer screen. This one was elderly, deep lines etched across his solemn face. Steel grey hair was immaculately cut and combed above stern, upswept brows and dark eyes. He looked familiar, but Spock supposed that was a consequence of finally meeting someone of his own racial ethnicity.

The older Vulcan looked towards Nero sharply. "What is this? Why is he here?"

The Romulan smiled. "I'm not sure how I should classify this. A family reunion? A self-examination? What do you think, Spock?"

Spock opened his mouth to reply that he had no notion of what was being implied, but Nero didn't appear to be addressing him. He was looking expectantly at the older Vulcan, who seemed anything but amused.

"Return him to where you found him. He has nothing to do with this. Your vendetta is with me."

Nero sneered. "The same act is in the heart of him. He is as capable as you. Why should he not suffer punishment?"

"Because he has not yet _acted_! Nero, he is not even aware of what we speak."

The Romulan gave a nod of acknowledgement. "I admit, that is a problem. That's why you're here. Show him."

The Vulcan looked affronted. "I will not."

"You say that like you have a choice, Spock." He gave a lazy gesture, and in a heartbeat his men had guns pointed steadily at both their heads.

Spock's thoughts raced, but still he could see no means of gaining any control of the rapidly devolving situation. Nero was unstable, irrational, and quite obviously delusional, and the other Vulcan seemed to be doing little but antagonising him.

When no reaction to the threat was forthcoming, Nero shrugged and drawled, "Shoot one of them."

Almost instantly, one of the weapons discharged with a flash of light. The beam struck Spock's shoulder. He grunted as searing pain spread through him. The fabric of his shirt smouldered, and beneath it ugly green burn blisters broke out across his flesh. He clenched his jaw, struggling not to act on the burst of rage which almost overcame him.

"Shall we take turns?" Nero asked mockingly. "I'm told disruptor burns are quite agonising. I wonder which of you will break first, youth or wisdom."

"Enough." The Vulcan drew himself up as though shouldering a burden. "You have made your point."

"I'm disappointed. I thought that would take much longer."

The Vulcan ignored the taunt, turning instead towards Spock. He stepped closer. "I apologise in advance for what I must do. This will not be a pleasant experience."

And all of a sudden, Spock realised what was about to happen. He backed away until he hit the edge of the metal table. "Do not touch me."

The guards promptly descended on him, grabbing at his arms and burned shoulder. They dragged him forward, thoroughly ignoring his struggles to free himself. He managed to drive his elbow into someone's stomach, and was given a backhand in retaliation. When the other Vulcan came to stand before him, the Romulans pinioned his arms to his side. He turned his face away in desperation.

The Vulcan paused with his hand outstretched. "While this is not how I would have preferred our first meeting to take place, I can assure you that you have no reason to fear me. I do not intend to harm you."

"You are wrong," Spock hissed. "Enter my mind and I will show you just how little I _fear _you."

The Vulcan looked sad, of all the uncalled for reactions, but it didn't stop him from closing the distance between them and placing his fingers firmly over Spock's face.

"My mind to your mind."

Instantly, Spock felt himself slammed backwards by the alien presence that entered his mindspace. It was massive, immovable, ancient. He threw up mental barriers in haste, but there was no indication the invading presence even noticed them as it broke through and spilled into all of Spock. He recoiled from the violation, spitting and snarling defiance, scrambling away into the darkest corners of his mind in search of escape.

_Calm yourself. I do not seek to harm you, _the Other repeated.

Spock summoned fury and hurled it at the presence. His own telepathic skills were not nearly well honed enough to communicate in a similar coherent manner.

Muted confusion drifted back to him. _You do not believe me? Allow me then to first show you the truth of who I am, that we may proceed peacefully. _

He did not know how to brace himself for the sudden influx of foreign memory. A thousand, a hundred thousand flashes of a world not his own poured over him. They were without order or sense. A desert; a starship; a human mother smiling at him as she touched his face. Friends colour coded red and yellow and blue and precious gold. He was a science officer of Starfleet, loyal to a Federation Spock didn't recognise. He was fighting with a phaser in hand, a spear in hand, both hands wrapped around his captain's throat as they grappled in the dirt. Tipsy on chocolate and Vulcan port. He was dying of radiation poisoning, trapped behind glass with his hand pressed to that of his t'hy'la. What was t'hy'la? The Vulcan language rolled off his tongue and Spock didn't understand a word of it. His vibrant, golden captain was tipping a smile over his shoulder and saying with easy confidence, _You have the con, Mister Spock. _

He reeled away from the torrent of memory feeling like he couldn't breathe.

_Do you understand now?_ the Other asked patiently. _I am you. We are one and the same. You may trust me as you would yourself. _

It was a lie, Spock thought immediately. A trick, a trap. Whoever this Vulcan was, they were certainly not 'one and the same', and nothing Spock had seen in the flood of false recollection could convince him otherwise.

_How do you doubt me? One cannot lie in the meld, you know this. _

Spock lashed out, wanting only for the Other to be gone from his mindspace. He formed mental claws and tore into the presence, seeking to wound, seeking to _hurt _and send it fleeing Spock's head in self defence. He thrashed and writhed and fought with all his will.

And still it was as nothing when the Other clamped down around him, crushing him small and still.

_Stop this. You do more damage to yourself than to me. _

Spock seethed, completely unable to free himself. He settled instead on projecting sullen resentment.

The Other seemed to deliberate for an uncertain amount of time. Then it said, _I must now view your memories as I have shared mine. There is something I must determine before we go any further. _

Spock tried to shout a protest, but he was ignored.

Unbidden, Terran children flashed to the forefront of his mind, the ones who had pulled his hair and flicked his ears and viciously pinched the back of his hands when they'd realised they were sensitive. And when he'd retaliated, the horrified expressions of adults all around him; the way they'd flinched back as though he was a small monster in their midst. Spock had seen the truth of humans then, their weakness and fear and petty hatreds.

Then had come the isolation. Sitting at a computer terminal most days listening to recorded lectures on Vulcan culture - what little was known of it. The educational holo-vids were made by Terrans who stumbled over the alien language and filled gaps in their knowledge with pretentious sweeping statements and guesses. They had known that pure Vulcans did not feel emotion, and so a councillor had been assigned to instruct him in the purging and repression of all sentiment. He had failed her lessons often. His telepathy had been something discovered and explored solely through trial and error. Snippets of thought and feeling he stole from anyone he touched. Ultimately, aversion to contact had been the only sensible defence.

A summary of his childhood and adolescence streamed before his mind's eye in this manner, and he was helpless to call any of it back. His humiliations and vulnerabilities were held up for examination by the Other, before being passed over as though found wanting.

Abruptly, the smothering force holding him relented somewhat. It still did not leave his mindspace, but certainly seemed to diminish.

_I apologise. I had not realised the true inequality of our telepathic abilities, due to your lack of training. _

The Other found and lingered over the memory of what he had done to Smiles, all those years ago. The Terran's blank stare, and Spock's savage triumph in ripping his mind open. He could feel the Other's undisguised horror emanating around their shared mindspace.

_I was indeed wrong. You and I are... not the same. I will endeavour to be more careful in my assumptions of you. _

Spock waited cautiously. There was a distinct chill to the presence now, a disapproval, even dislike.

_Nevertheless, I will share with you the reason for your, and my, being here. I suggest you prepare yourself. Emotional transfer is common. _

And that was all the warning Spock had before being plunged into the Other's memories for a second time.

_Be calm. I will guide you this time. _

Spock was streaming through the stars, across the countless lightyears he had travelled in his long life. Past the hundreds of planets he had set foot on, the worlds he had helped save and change. It was beautiful, and lonely, and felt like home. Then he saw it. An inferno burning in the black void of space.

_One hundred and twenty nine years from now a star will explode, threatening to destroy the galaxy. That time is where I'm from. _

Spock watched the supernova with something like awe. It had broken free of its gravitational bounds and was roaring free, a stellar explosion set to destroy all in its path.

_I promised the Romulans I would save their planet. _

There had been little sacrifice in volunteering to take the risk. His friends were long dead, his purpose wavering in their absence. Should he go to join them while performing one last act of reckless heroism - a crime he had often levelled at the captain's feet - then so be it.

_We outfitted our fastest ship. Using something called red matter, I would create a black hole which would absorb the explosion _

It was new technology, largely untested, but there had been little option but to rely on its success. It had been fitted into his one-man ship and he'd flown off into the light of a dying star.

_I was on route when the unthinkable happened. Romulus was destroyed. _

The destruction of a planet was horrendous. It crumbled under the blast of the supernova like so much dirt, billions of lives obliterated in a matter of seconds. His guilt was almost numbing. It had taken all his Vulcan self-possession to continue his mission in an orderly, efficient manner.

_I had little time. I extracted the red matter and shot it into the supernova. Then, as I began my return trip, I was intercepted. He called himself Nero. _

The Romulan mining vessel seemed to appear from nowhere, haling him to demand what had happened. Terrible grief had turned so quickly to fury as Spock had tried to explain that there was nothing he could have done.

_In my attempt to escape, we were both pulled into the growing black hole. Nero went through first, and so was the first to arrive in this universe. I understand he has been here a number of years already. _

Spock thought of the Romulan ship that had destroyed the _Kelvin _in 2233, the subsequent Romulan uprising, the escalating attacks on Starfleet and the Empire. All Nero's doing.

_But what was years for Nero was only seconds for me. The black hole must have stabilised to some degree in the moments between our passage, accounting for the time difference. I emerged only weeks ago, to find Nero waiting here for me. He took me captive and has held me ever since - for what reason I cannot tell you, although I suspect. _

Spock was released from the succession of memories, gently this time. The Other seemed to pause, granting him a chance to acclimatise and integrate the new knowledge. Dozens of questions sprang to mind, though surprisingly few of them actually concerned the destruction of Romulus. What truly perplexed Spock was that version of himself he kept glimpsing - someone who wore a Starfleet uniform with pride; whose expertise and knowledge were held in such high regard; who stood side by side with humans in fierce and mutual loyalty. In what possible universe could he have been that man?

_As you can see, my failure is the reason for his hatred of us._

Spock turned his mind from such useless speculation and back to the problem at hand. The disaster of Romulus had been nothing to do with _him_, he thought adamantly. _He _was not part of that other reality, _he _had not allowed a planet to burn.

_Hatred is rarely logical. _

And then the Other was finally gone, and Spock was left blissfully alone in his head again. He dropped to his knees, unprepared for the wave of exhaustion which broke over him. Green blood trickled from his nose and down his shirt, and pain blossomed behind his eyes.

Little more than a minute had passed.

"Is it done?" Nero asked, standing over him.

"He knows."

Spock levelled a hostile glare at the other Vulcan - the other him. "You are not me," he grated out, stubborn. "Your crime is not mine."

The guards once again grasped his arms and hauled him upright, turning him roughly to face Nero. The Romulan captain looked stone-faced. "As one of the few surviving victims, I believe I reserve the right to that judgement."

"But I have never -"

"Put him back with the others."

They dragged him out, and the last thing Spock saw before the doors slid shut was the look of infuriating, impotent regret on his other self's face.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sakuri: **So this is just a note here to say that I probably won't be using my account anymore. I can't stand the formatting, and I'm not getting as much traffic here as I used to.

HOWEVER I won't be taking the account down, and all stories are now available on my Inkitt account, where I'm also known as Sakuri. I also have an AO3 under the same username where new stuff will be posted, INCLUDING the rest of 'Shatter'.

Hope to see you all there!

(Oh, also, if you want to contact me with questions or to chat, I'm Verayne over on tumblr.)


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